


Lighting the Way

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Series: Nostos [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:45:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When being together is one thing, but talking about it is something else entirely</p><p>  <i>Set later the same day as Filth, but can be read as short post-Reichenbach reunion one-shot.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Lighting the Way

There was a single candle waiting for them in the window table at Angelo’s. The table where, in many respects, it had all begun. The night of the first candle, after Sherlock had made his point so beautifully about John’s leg, he’d taken the room in 221B.

Angelo wasn’t a hugger, but he’d gripped John’s hand so tightly that it was a wonder the bones hadn’t ground together. Judging by the nearly masked wince on Sherlock’s face, the detective hadn’t fared any better. The faked death and subsequent heroics earned Sherlock a clap on the back that nearly floored him and a bottle of wine for the table.

John sat at the table with Sherlock, sipping a glass of wine and trying to hide how self-conscious he felt. “People are staring.”

“No, they’re not.” Sherlock didn’t even look away from the window.

“Yes, they are, Sherlock.”

“Yes, they are.” Sherlock admitted evenly. “But they’re staring at me.” He sat further back in his chair, posturing slightly but pretending to completely ignore the other diners. “They’ve read the newspapers and think I’m some sort of international man of mystery.”

John snorted into his wine, “International man of mystery indeed.” He looked up and sensed another deletion, “You just referenced a film. Maybe ten or fifteen years ago; a couple of films, I think.” Sherlock still looked blank and John sighed, feeling even more sure the other diners were watching them. “Just, maybe, don’t refer to yourself as that. Especially not around The Yard.”

Rather than focus on the gaps in his knowledge, Sherlock continued, “They couldn’t care less that we’re in a relationship. John, they’re ordinary people. They have no idea: they see us having dinner together, but they don’t observe us having dinner _together_.”

John slumped slightly in his chair, feeling the coldness that had crept into Sherlock’s tone at the end of his explanation wasn’t solely focused on the shortcomings of their fellow diners. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He fiddled with his cutlery absently. “I spent so long denying… I guess I’m just still getting used to the idea of everyone finding out.”

“And their reaction bothers you?” Sherlock sounded baffled and almost angry, “These people who don’t even know us?” When John didn’t have an answer, he huffed and slid back his chair slightly, “Good Lord. What must it be like to be concerned about that?”

The condescension in the detective’s tone had grown with every sentence and it irked John so that his words came out harshly. “Stop it, Sherlock.” 

Ignoring the other man, Sherlock’s voice rose in pitch and he waved his fingers around his head. “What is it like to spend all your time worrying about what your little minds dream up about each other?”

John hissed, his voice perilously close to catching the other diners’ attention, “ _Stop it, Sherlock!_ ” He leaned over the table, angrily, remembering Sherlock’s words before the fall: _It really bothers you: what people say about me? Why would it bother you?_ “It matters to me, alright, it matters to _me_!”

Sherlock looked disappointed, and said softly, as if the fight had gone out of him, “They’re just the same people who used to say ‘piss off’.” Unspoken was the next level: that those were the same people who had called him a fraud and allowed Moriarty’s whole horrible plan to be set in motion.

John scrubbed a hand over his face, the fight going out of him as well. More calmly, he said, “So, what? I just ignore what everyone thinks?”

“Yes.”

John tilted his head sharply, implying that nothing could be as easy as Sherlock made it sound.

Sherlock quirked a half smile in response and said briskly, “Alright then, how about an experiment?”

“An experiment?” John raised an eyebrow, incredulous.

Backing down slightly, Sherlock conceded, “Fine then, call it a demonstration.” He gave a pointed look towards John’s leg and said, “I think you’ll have to agree they have been a success in the past.” John grunted, noncommittally, unsure if he wanted to see where Sherlock would take the subject, but unwilling to back down. There was something glittering in Sherlock’s eyes, caught by the flame of the candle, that was distinctly unsettling.

When Sherlock only stared at him for a long minute, John began to get impatient and burst out with a hushed, “Well, whatever you’re going to do… do it!”

As if it was the signal he’d been waiting for Sherlock leaned across the table and briefly pressed his lips to John’s before pulling away with a smug smile.

John’s fingers wandered up to brush his lips on their own accord. Sherlock Holmes had just kissed him, in full view of the restaurant and half of Northumberland Street. The hum of the other diners continued around them, utterly undisturbed by their display. Outside, a cab pulled out; the driver looking away and the occupant engrossed in their mobile. “You kissed me.” He sounded almost lost.

“Yes.”

“Just… just like that.”

“Yes, John, I did. Has the world ended?”

John turned to look more deeply into the restaurant and found a complete absence of any reaction whatsoever. “Oh.”

Sherlock crossed his arms. “Oh indeed.”

Angelo chose that moment to bustle back to the table and lean down, “Hey, congratulations.” He gave John a friendly thump on the shoulder and a broad smile, “I knew you had it in you. Dessert on me tonight, mate. I have that tiramisu you like. I’ll get you it with two spoons later.” He bustled away again before either of them could remind him that he always insisted everything was on him.

“So…” John trailed off, still looking flushed and clenched and unclenched his hand convulsively.

Resisting the urge to take the same tone he did with his slower clients, Sherlock said, “So people will find out, John. You can either be a coward about it, or go on the offensive.”

“And the offensive is?”

“Not hiding. Kissing. Whatever it needs to be.” Sherlock kicked out his long legs under the table and let them settle against the other man’s ankles. John had to admit to himself that it felt nice.

This forthrightness from Sherlock had surprised him, but as his brain caught up with the conversation he realised it shouldn’t have. Perhaps more surprisingly, he found he was okay with it. Sherlock Holmes: demonstrative in public. The implications were a bit too much to take in all at once. “Hold on, you’d better rein yourself in at crime scenes. That could definitely fall into ‘bit not good’ territory.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock leaned in close, teasing, “You’re a much better catch than anything Donovan or Anderson ever pulled. Can’t I show you off?”

John was stunned for a second, then barked out a laugh as something occurred to him, “Oh, God, remember when they pulled each other during the Jennifer Wilson case?”

Sherlock made a face that implied he’d lost his appetite at the thought and they burst out laughing, continuing until Sherlock’s curls were askew and they were both gasping. Impulsively, John reached across the table and gave Sherlock’s wrist a warm squeeze. 

It felt easy. 

It felt like being home.


End file.
